


Harry's Twilight

by WT Maxwell (WThomas_M)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: F/M, oh god what have I done
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2020-05-18 15:05:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19336981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WThomas_M/pseuds/WT%20Maxwell
Summary: One night, I woke up fiercely wanted to see if Twilight would somehow mix with Harry Potter. This terrifying mashup nightmare  was the result. I'm sorry. I'm so very, very sorry.





	Harry's Twilight

H WAS NINETY-NINE POINT NINE PERCENT SURE SHE WAS dreaming.

The reasons she was so certain were that, first, she was standing in a bright shaft of sunlight--the kind of blinding clear sun that never shone on her drizzly home in Brixton, South London--and second, she was looking at her Gran. Gran had been dead for many years now, so that was solid evidence toward the dream theory.

Gran hadn't changed much; her face looked the same as she remembered it. The skin was soft and withered, bent into a thousand tiny creases that clung gently to the bone underneath. Like a dried apricot, but with a puff of thick white hair standing out in a cloud around it. Their mouths--hers a wizened pucker--spread into the same surprised half-smile at just the same time. Apparently, she hadn't been expecting to see H, either.

She was about to ask her a question. She had so many: what was she doing here in her dream? What had she been up to in the past few years? Was Pop okay, and had they found each other, wherever they were? But she opened her mouth when H did, so H stopped to let her go first. Gran paused, too, and then they both smiled at the little awkwardness.

"Jean!"

It wasn't Gran who called her name, and they both turned to see the addition to their small reunion. she didn't have to look to know who it was; this was a voice she would know anywhere--know, and respond to, whether she was awake or asleep... or even dead, she'd bet. The voice she'd walk through fire for--or, less dramatically, slosh every day through the cold and endless rain for.

James.

To the rest of the world, they'd be known by their first names--H & H, Hermione and Harry--but to each other, a private joke, they called each other by their middle names. An in-joke, a secret shared, small in the course of their feelings but a thin thread that kept them connected. Even though she was always thrilled to see him--conscious or otherwise--and even though she was almost positive that she was dreaming, she panicked as James walked toward them through the glaring sunlight.

She panicked because Gran didn't know that she was in love with a wizard--nobody knew that--so how was she supposed to explain the fact that the brilliant sunbeams were shattering off his skin into a thousand rainbow shards like he was made of crystal or diamond?

_Well, Gran, you might have noticed that my boyfriend glitters. It's just something he does in the sun. Don't worry about it..._

What was he doing? The whole reason he lived in Surrey was so that he could live with his adopted and very ordinary foster parents, hiding his family's secret. Yet here he was, strolling gracefully toward H--with the most beautiful smile on his angel's face--as if she were the only one there. James put his arm around her shoulder and turned to face her grandmother.

Gran's expression surprised H. Instead of looking horrified, she was staring at H sheepishly, as if waiting for a scolding. And she was standing in such a strange position--one arm held awkwardly away from her body, stretched out and then curled around the air. Like she had her arm around someone she couldn't see, someone invisible...

Only then, as she looked at the bigger picture, did she notice the huge gilt frame that enclosed her grandmother's form. Uncomprehending, she raised the hand that wasn't wrapped around James' waist and reached out to touch her. She mimicked the movement exactly, mirrored it. But where their fingers should have met, there was nothing but cold glass...

With a dizzying jolt, her dream abruptly became a nightmare.

There was no Gran.

That was her. H in a mirror. H--ancient, creased, and withered.

James stood beside her, casting no reflection, excruciatingly lovely and forever a teen.

He pressed his icy, perfect lips against H's wasted cheek.

"Happy birthday," he whispered.

She woke with a start.

* * *

James was a highly unusual teen in many ways. For one thing, he hated the summer holidays more than any other time of year. For another, he really wanted to do his school work but was forced to do it in secret, in the dead of night.

He also happened to be a wizard.

It was nearly midnight, and he was lying on his stomach in bed, the blankets drawn over his head and a large leather-bound book (The Mysteries of Eulis by Paschal Beverly Randolph) propped open against the pillow. James moved the tip of his peregrine-feather quill down the page, frowning as he looked for something that would help him write his essay, 'The Efficacy of Affectional Alchemy -- a viable path to immortality or pointless onanism? discuss'

The quill paused at the top of a likely looking paragraph, a short treatise on the relative merits of yoni in the distillation of _prima materia_. Interesting. James put his quill between his teeth and reached underneath his pillow for his ink bottle and paper. Slowly he unscrewed the ink bottle, dipped his quill, and began to write, pausing every now and then to listen, because if any of the Dursleys heard the scratching of his quill, he'd probably find himself locked in the space under the stairs for the rest of the summer.

The Dursley family of Surrey was the reason that James never enjoyed his summer. They were James' only living relatives and not part of the wizarding world. Still, they were his guardians, and their perversions and petty cruelties helped hide James when he was out in the mundane world, part of a complicated magic that was woven when James was born. James was particularly keen to avoid trouble with them at the moment, as they were already in an especially bad mood, all because he'd received a telephone call one week into vacation.

Unluckily, it had been his uncle who had answered the call.

"Dursley speaking."

James, who happened to be in the room at the time, froze as he heard Jean's voice.

"Can you hear me? I want to talk to Harry."

The hollow sound that emanated from the phone indicated that she was using a spell to contact him, not an actual phone. James' uncle didn't know that, though. He jumped and held the receiver a foot away from his ear, staring at it with an expression of mingled fury and alarm.

"WHO IS THIS?" he roared in the direction of the mouthpiece. "WHO ARE YOU?"

"I'm--a-friend--of--his--from--school."

Uncle Vernon's small eyes swiveled around to James, who eyes flashed the color of a dangerous storm.

"THERE IS NO POTTER HERE!" his uncle roared, now holding the receiver at arm's length, as though frightened it might explode. "I DON'T KNOW WHAT SCHOOL YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT! NEVER CONTACT ME AGAIN! DON'T YOU COME NEAR MY FAMILY!"

And he threw the receiver back onto the telephone as if dropping a poisonous spider.

The fight that had followed had been one of the worst ever.

James finished writing about a fascinating trick one could perform with a lingam to enhance distillation and paused to listen again. The silence in the dark house was broken only by the distant, grunting sounds of his enormous cousin, up to his own private business. It must be very late, James thought. His eyes were itching with tiredness. Perhaps he'd finish this essay tomorrow night...

He stood up, stretched, and checked the time on the luminous alarm clock on his bedside table. It was one o'clock in the morning. James' stomach gave a funny jolt. He had been been a year older, without realizing it, for a whole hour.

James walked across the dark room to the open window. He stepped onto the sill, the cool night air pleasant on his face and thought about Jean. He'd been absent from her thoughts for two nights now, a record for her. James wasn't worried about that: she'd been gone almost this long before. The force of their love, with the aid of a little spell he'd conjured on her, linked them stronger than distance. But he hoped he'd be back in her thoughts soon -- she was the only living creature he cared about.

His jet-black hair, stubborn and sleek, blew back as the night wind picked up. His eyes shone a gold-flecked gem green, and on his forehead, clearly visible through his hair, was a scar, shaped like a bolt of lightning. The mark that set him apart from everyone, where a curse, instead of killing him, had rebounded upon its originator. A curse that still marked him with an inability to fully give in to his love.

James had come face-to-face with the originator of that curse twice now and had bested him. But still he couldn't relieve the ache in his heart. Remembering their last conflict as he stood in the dark window, James had to admit he was lucky even to have reached this birthday.

He scanned the starry sky. Gazing absently over the rooftops, it was a few seconds before James realized what he was seeing. Jean, silhouetted against the golden moon. His skin seemed to light on fire and a beatific smile lit up his face.

She was his again.

At that moment Harry James Potter felt just like everyone else -- glad, for the first time in his life, that it was his birthday.

* * *

Just a dream, H told herself. It was only a dream. She took a deep breath, and then jumped again when  
her alarm went off. The little calendar in the corner of the clock's display informed her that today was  
her birthday.

She'd been dreading this day for months.

It was even worse than she'd feared it would be. She could feel it--she was older. When she went to brush her teeth, she was almost surprised that the face in the mirror hadn't changed. She stared at myself, looking for some sign of impending wrinkles in her ivory skin. The only creases were the ones on her forehead, though, and she knew that if she could manage to relax, they would disappear. She couldn't.

Her eyebrows stayed lodged in a worried line over her anxious brown eyes.

It was just a dream, she reminded myself again. Just a dream... but also her worst nightmare.

H struggled to get a grip on herself as she drove to the train station. The vision of Gran--she would not think of it as her--was hard to get out of her head. She couldn't feel anything but despair until she pulled into the familiar parking lot behind the station and spotted James leaning motionlessly against his polished Bristol Fighter (in British racing green, as was proper). He was like a marble tribute to some forgotten pagan god of beauty; the dream had not done him justice.

And he was waiting there for her, just the same as he had last summer. And the one before that. Despair momentarily vanished; wonder took its place. Even after two years with him, she still couldn't believe that she deserved this degree of good fortune.

His brother Ron was standing by his side, waiting for her, too. Of course James and Ron weren't really related, but their skin was precisely the same pale shade, their eyes had the same strange golden tint, with the same deep, bruise-like shadows beneath them. His face, like James, was also startlingly beautiful. To someone in the know--someone like H--these similarities marked them for what they were.

The sight of Ron waiting there--his tawny eyes brilliant with excitement, and a small silver-wrapped square in his hands--made H frown. She'd told Ron she didn't want anything, not gifts or even attention, for her birthday. Obviously, her wishes were being ignored.

She slammed the door of her '59 Mini--a shower of rust specks fluttered down to the wet blacktop--and walked slowly toward where they waited. Ron practically skipped forward to meet her, his pixie face glowing under his spiky ginger hair.

"Happy birthday, H!"

"Shh!" she hissed, glancing around the lot to make sure no one had heard her. The last thing she wanted was some kind of celebration of the black event.

Ron ignored her. "Do you want to open your present now or later?" he asked eagerly as they made their  
way to where James still waited.

"No presents," H protested in a mumble. James held out his hand for hers. She took it eagerly, forgetting, for a moment, her glum mood. His skin was, as always, smooth, hard, and very cold. He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. She looked into his liquid topaz eyes, and her heart gave a not-quite-so-gentle squeeze of its own.

Hearing the stutter in her heartbeats, he smiled again.

He lifted his free hand and traced one cool fingertip around the outside of her lips as he spoke. "So, as  
discussed, he is not allowed to wish you a happy birthday, is that correct?"

"Yes. That is correct." she could never quite mimic the flow of his perfect, formal articulation.

"Just checking." He ran his hand through his tousled ebony hair. "You might have changed your mind. Most people seem to enjoy things like birthdays and gifts."

"James, please--" she started to beg, but he pressed one cool finger to her lips.

"Let's discuss it later. We're going to be late for the train."

No one bothered to stare at them as they took their usual seats in the back of the train. James and she had been together too long now to be an object of gossip anymore. Even nosy Neville didn't bother to give her the glum stare that used to make her feel a little guilty. He smiled now instead, and she was glad he seemed to have accepted that they could only be friends. Neville had changed over the summer--his face had lost some of the roundness, making his cheekbones more prominent, and he was wearing his pale blond hair a new way; instead of bristly, it was longer and gelled into a careful disarray.

It was easy to see where his inspiration came from but James' look wasn't something that could be achieved through imitation.

H had never had much money, and that had never bothered her. Her parents lived on a council estate, both dentists. Her only personal income came from the three days a week she worked as a shop assistant at Henrik's Department Store. Every penny she made went into her microscopic college fund.

James had a lot of money--she didn't even want to think about how much. Money meant next to nothing to James. It was just something that accumulated when you had the fortunes of a famed wizarding family and the uncanny ability to attract prominent sponsors. James didn't seem to understand why she objected to him spending money on H--why it made her uncomfortable if he took her to an expensive restaurant in Cairo, why he wasn't allowed to buy her a car that could reach speeds over fifty-five miles an hour, or why she wouldn't let him pay her college tuition. James thought she was being unnecessarily difficult.

But how could she let him give her things when she had nothing to reciprocate with? He, for some unfathomable reason, wanted to be with her. Anything he gave her on top of that just threw them more out of balance.

"You should be in a good mood, today of all days," James whispered. His sweet breath fanned across her face.

"And if I don't want to be in a good mood?" she asked, her breathing uneven.

His golden eyes smoldered. "Too bad."

Her head was already spinning by the time he leaned closer and pressed his icy lips against hers. As he intended, no doubt, she forgot all about her worries, and concentrated on remembering how to inhale and exhale.

His mouth lingered on hers, cold and smooth and gentle, until she wrapped her arms around his neck and threw herself into the kiss with a little too much enthusiasm. she could feel his lips curve upward as he let go of her face and reached back to unlock her grip on him. He pressed his lips gently to hers one more time and then pulled away, folding her arms across her stomach. Her pulse was thudding in her ears. she put one hand over her heart. It drummed hyper-actively under her palm.

"Do you think I'll ever get better at this?" she wondered, mostly to herself. "That my heart might someday stop trying to jump out of my chest whenever you touch me?"

"I really hope not," he said, a bit smug.

She rolled her eyes.

"Time to open presents," Ron declared. He put into H's hands a big, square silver box.

The box was so light that it felt empty. Self consciously, H tore the paper off and then stared at the box it concealed. It was something electrical, with lots of numbers in the name. She opened the box, hoping for further illumination. But the box was empty.

"Um... thanks."

James cracked a smile. Ron laughed. "It's a stereo for your mini," Ron explained. "It's being installing right now so that you can't return it."

Ron was always one step ahead of H, when it came to presents. "Thanks" she told him, grinning as she remembered James' complaints about her radio last summer. A setup, obviously.

"Open James' next," Ron said, so excited his voice was higher-pitched than normal. He held a small, flat square in her hand.

H turned to give James a basilisk glare. "You promised."

"I didn't spend a dime," James assured her. He brushed a strand of hair from her face, leaving her skin tingling from his touch.

H inhaled deeply and turned to Ron. "Give it to me," she sighed.

Ron chuckled with delight.

She took the little package, rolling her eyes at James while she stuck her finger under the edge of the paper and jerked it under the tape. The package opened to reveal a red clay tablet, with oddly familiar markings on it. From ancient history class, last year; Kemet--the writings were from Kemet.

Ron looked puzzled. "That's not what you got her." He said to James.

James was startled. "What?"

H ran her fingertips over the curious tablet. There was an eery tingle and when she drew her fingers back, the ends were covered in blood.

It all happened very quickly then.

"No!" James roared.

He threw himself at her, flinging her to the back of the compartment, as he also knocked the tablet from her hands. The window cracked and webbed as she hit it.

There was a sound like the crash of boulders in a rock slide.

There was another noise, a grisly snarling that seemed to be coming from deep in James' chest. His wand was in his hand, extended and glowing with a wrathful scarlet light.

Ron had grabbed James' other wrist, fear locking him onto his brother, but James' wild eyes focused only outward.

Beyond the shock, beyond the pain. H felt the searing, stinging anguish that ran from her head to her chest. Dazed and disoriented, she looked up from the bright red blood pulsing out of a head wound and past James--into the fevered gaze of six ravenous Dementors.


End file.
